


Not Arbitrary

by WritingQuill



Series: (30) Days of Johnlock [27]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 30 Day OTP Challenge, 4+1, Birthday, Birthday Cake, Birthday Presents, Drug Use, Friendship, Gen, If You Squint - Freeform, Kid Fic, Loneliness, M/M, Overdosing, Pre-Slash, Uni!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 18:23:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/776565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingQuill/pseuds/WritingQuill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Day twenty-seven: on one of their birthdays </p><p> </p><p>  <i>The Holmes family did not celebrate birthdays. It was simply an arbitrary celebration for staying alive for another year, and it did not deserve recognition</i></p><p> </p><p>Four times Sherlock didn't celebrate his birthdays, and one time he did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Arbitrary

_One_

The Holmes family did not celebrate birthdays. It was simply an arbitrary celebration for staying alive for another year, and it did not deserve recognition. Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes were raised to never bother with such trivialities, but only focus on what was important — knowledge and intelligence. 

By the time he was eight years of age, Sherlock had never had a birthday party, present or anyone wish him a ‘happy birthday’. He didn’t mind, of course, because, as his parents always said, it was a banality, unimportant and frankly a waste of time and energy. 

On his ninth birthday, 6th of January 1990, Sherlock was conducting an Extremely Important experiment at the park, even though it was really quite cold because of the winter. Luckily, it hadn’t snowed yet this year, so most of the cold-resistant greenery was intact. Nanny was waiting for him, sitting in one of the benches, reading a women’s magazine, and Sherlock was going around the hedges looking for small larva for his experiment, which involved their reactions to electricity and if they could be tamed like a dog with the use of it. The most complicated experiment he had ever tried to date, but that’s what made it most exciting. 

When he managed to gather six different larva — Mycroft had taught him how to differentiate them — Sherlock went over to Nanny and they went back to the Holmes manor. There, Sherlock went straight to his bedroom/laboratory, where he placed the larva on separate petri dishes on the desk, then started working on the electrical device he’d need to conduct the experiment — he was wearing plastic gloves, of course, since he wasn’t stupid. 

The rest of the day passed really fast, as he focused on his work. By the time Nanny called him over for supper, it was well dark outside and he already felt his eyes droopy from sleep. He walked downstairs where he found Mummy and Mycroft already at the dining room table, Mycroft sitting on the middle, facing the large doors that led to the drawing room, and Mummy sitting on one of the far ends. Sherlock took his seat at Mummy’s right, across the table from Mycroft — from where he would sometimes fling his food at the pompous fat git. Father was away on a business trip and wasn’t due back ’til next week, so they began to eat as soon as Sherlock settled. 

Dinner was mostly silent on Sherlock’s part, he simply played with his food as he heard Mummy and Mycroft discuss Mycroft’s plans for when he returned to Eton on Monday. After dessert, Sherlock was gathered by Nanny and taken to his room to change for bed. 

As he lay back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, and thinking about his experiment, the fact that his birthday went unmentioned didn’t even cross his mind. 

 

_Two_

 

After Sherlock left for university, he seldom returned home for holidays. Christmas were entirely too tedious for him, as he didn’t believe in any powerful entities nor did he care about the birth of said entity’s son. So, he spent the Christmas and New Year holidays locked either in the lab with his experiments, in the library with his books, or in his room with his bag of cocaine. 

In 1999, Sherlock turned 18. It was considered an important milestone by most people, as it was the legal transition to adulthood. Sherlock had felt like an adult his entire life, never having been allowed to play or behave like those mindless children, running around like baboons. And he didn’t enjoy the taste of alcohol, so he couldn’t got through the pub-crawl rite of passage that was so popular amongst the other people at university. 

He did like cigarettes, though, so after having lunch at the cafeteria, Sherlock walked towards the off-licence right off the high street, the one that always denied him cigarettes because he was underage. He opened the doors and the tiny bells on the door chimed, bringing the tall Pakistani man with a permanent scowl to the till. He frowned at Sherlock, ready to kick him out again, but Sherlock gave him a smirk. He placed his ID on the counter. 

‘Two packs of Marlboro red, please,’ he asked with his best fake pleasant voice. 

The man picked up the identification card and frowned even more at it, clearly annoyed that the persistent kid was of age now. He had denied Sherlock cigarettes for two years, but not anymore, so now he turned to the display behind the counter and took out the two packs. Sherlock placed the exact amount of money on the man’s hand, took his cigarettes, smirked once again and turned away to leave. 

When he reached the street, Sherlock took one of the fags from the pack and placed it between his lips, producing a lighter from his coat pocket and lighting it with a pleasure-filled drag. He let out the smoke and grinned. 

‘Happy birthday to me,’ Sherlock mumbled, walking back to his dorm. 

 

_Three_

He lived above a kebab shop in a dingy flat on Caledonian Road. The furniture was just a small table on the kitchen, a futon, some shelves and a small bed, but the rent was cheap and his dealer worked close by, so Sherlock couldn’t complain. 

That year was supposed to be another milestone, 2001. Turning twenty, two full decades of being alive — and not overdosing once, about which Sherlock was a bit proud, actually. However, at the moment, Sherlock was busy throwing his head back as he pulled the needle out of his arm. He breathed in deeply and revelled in the feeling the drug hitting his system, streaming along his veins with his blood, making his brain _stop_. His vision was white for a second, time slowed down and everything was peaceful. He didn’t care about dates, or about Mycroft’s threats to send him to rehab, all he cared about right now was the complete control over his thoughts, the utter silence and tranquility. 

It didn’t last long, though, because soon he started to feel unwell. A wave of nausea crushed him, and his heart started to race. His chest hurt, and Sherlock stared at his needle, lying on the ground, trying to think past the anxiety and pain, _it can’t be overdose_ , he thought to himself, though he may have said it out loud, right now he was unaware. All he knew was that he was quickly losing himself to the pain, his breathing got faster and his forehead was dripping with sweat. 

All he had time to do was text a quick ‘999’ to Mycroft before passing out. 

Sherlock woke up three days later on a bed in yet another rehabilitation facility he was sure to break out of in less than a week. 

_Four_

The crime scene was cold, in an abandoned garage near South Bank. Lestrade was frowning at the body of the teenager lying on a pool of his own blood when Sherlock walked past the tape. 

‘Fourth victim,’ Lestrade announced, as if Sherlock didn’t know. The boy, identified as Lawrence Higgins, had been missing for five days before being dumped here. The serial killer’s M.O. was simply to keep the victims — victimology was unusual, each of the victims came from a different economic and ethnic background, nothing connecting them except the serial killer himself — for five days before placing them, paralysed, not dead, at the dumping spot and cutting their throats. He never left any vestige he’d ever been there, except for the victim. It was infuriating for the Scotland Yard, but exciting and not-boring-at-all for Sherlock. This felt like the best birthday present, if he ever bothered to celebrate the pointless date. The recent-turned twenty-eight-year-old looked around the crime scene, examined the victim’s location closely, even sniffed the blood. He paused for a second, then gasped. 

‘Oh!’ Sherlock exclaimed, excitedly. ‘Of course!’ 

‘What?’ 

Sherlock didn’t seem to hear him, because he darted off, walking right past the police tape and shouting an “I’ll text you” as he went. 

By the end of the day, well into the evening, Sherlock stood outside a vintage dolls shop, where the serial killer worked. He had just finished giving the full statement to one of Lestrade’s officer and was simply watching as they dragged the bald man to the police car. The man, Gil Clarkson, was smirking, eyes wide. There was a smudge of blood under his chin and his hands were covered in it as well, but it was pigs blood, as he had still been keeping the latest victim captive at the time he was captured. The victim, a girl this time, was being taken care of by the EMTs. 

Work done, Sherlock turned away and walked towards the main street, where he hailed a cab back to his flat on Montague Street. 

 

 _And one_

 

‘Happy birthday!’ greeted John as Sherlock entered the kitchen. It was late morning and they had just finished a week-long case that had Sherlock sleeping for fourteen hours after. Now, clad in his pyjamas and trademark blue silk dressing gown, Sherlock was caught by surprise. His flatmate stood on the kitchen in front of a well-decorated cake — _Marks & Spencer, no doubt_ — with thirty small candles on top of it. 

Sherlock stared at John with wide eyes. He had never… had a birthday cake before, or anyone wishing him a happy birthday. Sherlock realised he didn’t know how to respond. Should he thank John? Hug him? Sing a song? 

‘Er…’ Sherlock began, still without a clue of what to do. John simply smiled at him. 

‘Because it’s your birthday, I’ll allow you do have cake for breakfast,’ he said with a wink. ‘My Mum always let me have cake for breakfast on my birthday. It was great.’ 

‘Thank you,’ said Sherlock, finally, realising that the meaning behind the words was perhaps heavier than it should have been. 

‘Are you okay?’ asked John, as he looked for a knife to cut the cake. ‘Still sleepy?’ 

‘No, I…’ Sherlock looked from John to the cake and back again. ‘I’ve never had a birthday cake before.’ 

John’s eyes widened. ‘What? Why?’ 

‘Birthdays are a banality, we never celebrated them at home,’ Sherlock said, repeating the words he’d heard from his father since he could remember. Every January 6th that deep voice appeared in his mind, impeding him from enjoying his day or do anything about it. Or even tell anyone. Which begged the question… ‘How did you know it was today?’ 

‘I saw your ID when I had to bail you out last August…’ John replied absent-mindedly. He still seemed a bit shocked by the information that Sherlock had never had a birthday. ‘Has anyone ever even wished you a happy birthday?’ Sherlock shook his head. ‘Not even your parents?’ 

That made Sherlock snort loudly. ‘My parents enforced the rule quite religiously, so, no, they never did wish me a happy anything, actually. Not that we were ever in each other’s presence long enough to do more than acknowledge each other’s existence.’ 

John seemed outraged, which stroke Sherlock as quite funny. It was just an arbitrary date, like anniversary celebrations and pointless holidays, didn’t mean anything. But it did to John, apparently, by the determined way with which he cut the cake and passed a plate to Sherlock. ‘Well, that is absolutely ridiculous. Every child deserves to have a birthday party. So eat your cake, and I’ll go get your present.’ He left Sherlock alone in the kitchen. Sherlock cut a small piece of the dark forrest cake and ate it, humming in pleasure as the delicious taste of chocolate and strawberry hit his tongue. He was almost halfway through his slice when John re-appeared, carrying a large box with him. He handed it to Sherlock with a fond smile. 

Sherlock was stunned for a moment, taking it all in. John’s kindness, his smile, his warm expression, that hideous jumper, the cake… and the present. His first actual birthday present. He took the box and smiled up at John from his chair. 

‘Can I open it?’ he asked shyly. It was preposterous to feel nervous about this, but he wasn’t familiar with the protocol. John simply chuckled and leant against the kitchen counter. 

‘Of course, it’s yours.’ 

Sherlock smiled widely and, instead of deducing what the present was, he simply tore the wrapping apart, revealing a lidded box, which he opened. His breath caught in his throat when he saw what was inside. It was a brand new violin case. His was old, and he could never be bothered to buy a new one. But this one was perfect. He took it out of the box. The case had a light grey exterior, and a plastic dark grey handle. He opened it and found that the interior was exquisite, and suited his tastes perfectly, finished with red velvet lining, quilted in a tan diamond pattern where the body of the violin rested, and the rest was covered in a beautiful velvet deep red paisley. Sherlock was mesmerised. He looked up at John and found that he was unable to speak. 

‘Did you like it, then?’ asked John, though it seemed like he already knew the answer. Sherlock simply nodded and stood up, placing and violin case on the chair. He walked over to John and, to thank him, wrapped his arms around John’s waist and pulled him into a hug. John simply chuckled and threw his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders. ‘Happy birthday, Sherlock.’ 

And, for the first time, it really, really was.

**Author's Note:**

> Is that cheating? Oh, well. You liked it anyway, right? Let me know, your comments make me really happy! 
> 
> Thank you for reading, you're awesome!
> 
> Cheers x


End file.
